


Better Than 7%

by irisqod



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Established Relationship, M/M, Safe Sane and Consensual, drug alternative, semi-rough sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-09
Updated: 2013-02-09
Packaged: 2017-11-28 18:25:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/677459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisqod/pseuds/irisqod
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock needs help focusing</p>
            </blockquote>





	Better Than 7%

The case wasn’t going well. The answer, that elusive last piece of the puzzle was just out of Sherlock’s grasp. And it frustrated him. Infuriated him. It had seemed so simple: a dead woman, alone in her home. A _rich_ dead woman. Murder for money – tedious. 

What weren’t tedious were the wounds on her body. Small, round punctures with perfectly smooth wound tracks peppered her abdomen. She had died of internal bleeding from a severely damaged liver. There was no weapon found at the scene.

Sherlock was tired. This case came on top of three consecutive, convoluted ones. It had seemed like an easy solve, but Sherlock was stymied by the weapon. What and where was it?

He needed to think. He needed to _not_ think.

“John!” he shouted from his customary spot in his chair, not realizing that the man himself was sitting on the sofa. “I need your assistance.”

“Oi! I’m right here, ‘Lock. No need to shout. What do you need?”

“Bedroom. Now.” It wasn’t a statement it was a demand. John took one look at the wild, dressing-gown clad creature that was now pacing the floor and said, “right” and dashed for the bedroom, kicking off his shoes as he went. He knew he was about to be fucked within an inch of his life, but he loved it. Sherlock was unable to find the answer and that didn’t happen often. When it did, John was happy to be Sherlock’s 7% solution.

Sherlock caught him at the door, spun him around and all but slammed their mouths together. John had to be careful on these occasions to let Sherlock overwhelm him; he had to turn off the soldier’s training to defend himself against an attacker, because that was what Sherlock was when he was like this. When he was _not_ thinking.

The kiss was frenzied. Lips were accidentally caught between teeth, teeth clacking together, John’s tongue sucked to the point that it was going to be bruised. Sherlock actually biting down, just a bit, on the pink muscle as if to test its resilience and texture.

While he worked John’s mouth, his hands were busy undoing his belt. Pushing John down onto the bed, the leather made a loud whip-crack sound as it cleared the loops of John’s trousers. One of the loops tore off entirely.

Sherlock’s dressing gown was open and his arousal showed – chest flushed a rosy shade and his cock slightly darker. Panting, he pushed John’s shirt up, too rushed to bother with the buttons, and seized a pink nipple between his teeth and flicked his tongue against the hardening flesh.

John groaned his approval and plunged his fingers into the wild dark curls on Sherlock’s head.

Off went John’s trousers and pants with a rough jerk and John reflexively scooted farther up on the bed and opened his legs. Sherlock was on him and licking at his cock. 

“Wait.” He fumbled a bit under the pillow till he found what he wanted and tossed it to Sherlock. The little bottle of lube bounced off the eager detective’s shoulder and rolled to the floor. 

“Please, Sherlock, use that.” John loved it when Sherlock split him in two, but he didn’t want it to happen in the literal sense of the word.

Sherlock scooped up the bottle, spun the cap all the way off with one practiced flick of his thumb and squeezed the whole contents out onto to his palm. The bottle was tossed across the room and skittered under the dresser.

John groaned again when he heard the sucking sounds Sherlock’s fist was making on his cock as he slicked himself from root to tip. He yelped a bit when a cool wet hand slipped between his cheeks, slicking him as well.

Sherlock gave him one word of warning: “Yes?” This was John’s opportunity to say no, but he didn’t, wouldn’t. Ever. Sherlock was inside him and had bottomed out in one swift, smooth slippery push.

“Oh, John,” was the last coherent thing he said. 

“Go on, take what you need.” 

As John spoke the words, Sherlock began to move. The man who usually took his time when making love to John was gone, replaced with one not interested in nuance and finesse, or cataloguing responses for later encounters. The man inside John now was, in a word, driven.

Every thrust pushed John farther up the bed until he had to put his hands over his head and brace against the headboard to avoid a concussion. Rhythmic staccato banging was coming from both the headboard and legs of the bed. Sherlock had John by the legs, one hand behind each knee, effectively bending him in half at the waist as he thrust home. Sweat had broken out down Sherlock’s back and his dressing gown was now plastered to his skin.

Inside Sherlock’s head was a whirl of images: John’s blue eyes his Belstaff coat. Steel and tea cozies. Socks. John’s jumpers, the wound tracks on the dead woman. Things in pairs, two by two, John and Sherlock. Pairs. John’s bollocks. Somehow the things in his head all went together, but how? His mind recorded everything from the crime scene and on the body. The connection – what was it? 

Primal sounds of need were coming from Sherlock as he drew ever nearer to orgasm. John had taken hold of his own hard cock and was stroking, working towards his own climax.

“God, ohhh God.” Sherlock began punctuating his thrusts with words. He dropped John’s legs and pulled the smaller man upright and onto his lap. Maybe looking at John would help. “What.” Thrust. “Was.” Thrust. “Missing?” His thighs were slapping against John’s. He stared at John. “What?” Sherlock closed his eyes, gripped John’s hips and rammed himself up into John’s body.

John tore open his shirt, unmindful of the buttons as they flew in all directions. He kissed his lover, tongue pushing past the full lips. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock and pressed himself as close as he could for maximum friction and pressure on his slippery prick. 

The words left Sherlock and he’d gone back inside his head as he pushed up into John. Both were now desperate for release.

Sherlock kept picturing sheep and mittens and, _oh_. Oh!

“Yes, God John! Yes!” Sherlock’s eyes flew open and the expression on his face was absolute glory. “The needles!”

He roared John’s name again and came, shuddering and clinging to John who soon followed, his orgasm bursting between them.

Sherlock began to laugh, deep resonant sounds coming up from his chest. He’d done stranger things after sex, so John wasn’t too surprised by the laughter.

“Care to share the joke?” He asked as he slid down off Sherlock’s thighs. “Needles are funny?”

“That is what was missing. There was a basket next to the woman’s favourite chair, full of balls of wool and a partially completed scarf, or jumper, or whatever,” he waved his hand. “There were several pairs of knitting needles poking out of the basket and one single one. She was stabbed with one of her own knitting needles.”

Jumping up out of bed, he gathered his dressing gown around him and went for his phone, quickly punching out a text to Lestrade.

_Look for a single knitting needle, steel, 4mm. It’s your murder weapon. -SH_

He dropped the phone on the bed and sat next to John.

“Thank you.” He said pulling the smaller man into an embrace. 

“Happy to help. I’d rather you use me to focus your mind than a syringe.” John looked serious. “’Use’ isn’t the right word maybe. I don’t feel used. Debauched, definitely.” Then he smiled. “And hungry.”

“Let’s order in.” Sherlock flopped back onto the bed. “I’m exhausted.”

By the time they’d showered and the food arrived, Sherlock was asleep on the sofa, a smile on his face, and John was writing the case up for his blog.

Leaving out, of course, the bits about him being Sherlock’s drug of choice.

**Author's Note:**

> This is what happens when I crochet all day.


End file.
